Welcome, Brother
by Whilom
Summary: “I can see them at night, their faces. They say, ‘Welcome, brother.’”


**A/N:** Obviously inspired by that line from the movie... I really liked this but am slightly discontent with Achilles. I wanted to give him this deep yearning, this terrible ache at just seeing Patroclus again, but I'm not sure that I accomplished it.

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Achilles stepped onto the ground and watched as his foot seemed to hover above the mud. He could almost feel it seeping between his toes—almost. He could almost feel anything, but never enough. The world seemed empty. No, he corrected himself, the _underworld_ seemed empty. Earth was bright and heavenly compared to this dirty place where even the sensation of pain might be welcome. Any sensation at all besides this terrible emptiness.

It was almost worse than when he had first found himself alone, when he first saw Patroclus' body and did not hear Patroclus' voice. He had seen this place so many times in his life. It had haunted him in his dreams until he had nearly ceased to fear it because it was so familiar. He had first seen it when he had killed his first man and then glimpsed that man in his dreams, standing across the river Styx, one foot suspended over the dark water as though to cross over. Achilles had drawn back a step and then woken, his hands curled into tight fists at his sides, his brow covered with sweat. The bottoms of his feet were wet with the mud of the Styx's banks and he knew he had made his first visit to the underworld.

The first, because there were many visits that followed. Every time he killed a man, in the beginning. Then every time a man looked into his eyes and died. Then it was no longer only when he killed but every time he slept or when he listened too long to stories of the legends that populated the earth with their tombs. The only thing that drove the dreams and visits away had been Patroclus, a bright sun in the underworld's perpetual night. His motives for Patroclus had nearly always been selfish: he wanted Patroclus with him to drive away the dreams, and then he wanted Patroclus with him because he loved his cousin more than any other being. Now he wanted Patroclus with him because this place was too familiar and he had always chased it away before. Odd, how Patroclus, his sun, had succumbed to his dreams of night. Light ought to chase away the darkness, not succumb to it, he reasoned; but his thoughts did nothing to drive away the chill that shook his bones.

He had not tried to speak before, but had always sat in the mud and watched it squelch up between his toes and waited until he awoke. The dead would sometimes appear on the other side of the Styx and he had once even glimpsed a man that he knew as a friend in life, but then Patroclus had woken him for a morning of sparring. That was when he had decided to accompany Odysseus to Troy—and take Patroclus with him.

It had all been a fatal mistake, had it not? His world had crashed down around his head because the sun had fallen from his sky and he was left in the dark—with his dreams. Now his dreams were his reality, or as real as things could be in the underworld. He lifted his hands to his face and rubbed his fingertips with his thumb. He seemed real enough. He could feel himself. And he felt empty.

He remembered telling Patroclus about his dreams. Patroclus had not heard him speak of them before, did not know his part in them, how he had rescued the great Achilles from his nightmares. He had been seated in the sand outside his tent and Patroclus had come to urge him to lead the Myrmidons into battle. He had refused. He had asked, "Are you ready to fight?"

"Yes."

"Are you ready to kill, to take life?" he had demanded, hardly knowing why. Patroclus fell silent. Achilles had turned away from his cousin, lifting his wine to his lips. He was drunk. The night before he had stood by the Styx and watched as every man he had ever killed emerged from the gloom. "I can see them at night, their faces. They say, 'Welcome, brother.'" He felt Patroclus' eyes on him with an intensity he had never felt before. He drained his wine. "We men are wretched things."

_Wretched thing._

Yes, it fit him so well. Far better than _great hero_ or _beloved of the gods_. He was neither of those things. But wretched, yes—that was exactly what he was. Worms were wretched. Things that crawled in the dust and mud of the world were wretched. And here he was below them, sitting in the mud of the underworld, feeling a greater wretchedness than they.

He had asked his cousin if he was ready to fight because somehow he had wanted Patroclus to know that Achilles was not everything the legends claimed. He was not fearless. He could not defend himself against anything. He was hardly able to sleep at night without draining a skin of wine because of his dreams. And in his dreams he had been visited by the dead.

Patroclus was dead.

Patroclus should be here, should he not? The underworld held all the dead. Patroclus should be here. Where was his cousin? It was a crushing disappointment that the underworld was dark. Achilles had known that it was dark when he visited it before, but Patroclus had preceded him. Patroclus made everything bright. _Patroclus, Patroclus…_

Achilles felt the final remnant of his heart wrench into pieces as his last, unrecognized hope failed. He hid his face in his hands and sobbed, hardly noticing that no tears came to wash away his grief. He was stained by it, and would remain so forever.

"Welcome, cousin."

The soft voice was punctuated by the quiet emotion that always hovered around Patroclus.

It was like ambrosia from the gods.

Achilles stilled, fingers still held to his face. It could not be. He had wished for it, prayed for it, but he did not know that he could bear it. Yet the echo of the voice beckoned to him and he slowly let his trembling fingers fall and raised his eyes, full of fear and longing.

The sun-streaked hair was the same, the sea-blue eyes the same, the honest mouth, the determined stance—all the very same. Patroclus stood before him, feet hovering just as his did over the underworld's earth. Patroclus, alive and well, with the smile that said he had a secret and could hardly keep it from bursting from him, with the pleading gaze, with the impetuous spirit that seemed to tremble, glowing around him like suppressed laughter.

"Patroclus…" Achilles' dry mouth returned.

_Patroclus…_

"I ask your forgiveness, Achilles." Patroclus' bright eyes looked away briefly and Achilles felt the loss of his gaze as the warmth of the sun.

"I grant it to you." His throat was so tight, his soul so filled with painful hunger, that he could hardly speak. He wanted so badly to pull Patroclus to his chest and feel for himself that his cousin was real and believe in his heart that this was not some wonderful dream that he would weep to wake from.

But he could not. Patroclus seemed removed, immaterial in the underworld in a different way than he was. He did not know if they would be able to touch and he did not want to reach out and feel only air as he had so many times in life.

Again Patroclus spoke and Achilles' soul constricted as though trying to squeeze out any tears that might come. "I have missed you, cousin." His mouth tipped and Achilles wanted to fall to his knees, an ache that made him feel old, so old and weary, consuming him.

_And I you, Patroclus. Oh I have missed you…_

"I have met many shades in my time here." Patroclus' smile widened. "I told them my name." Patroclus' voice lowered to a whisper and he reached out to take Achilles' shoulders in his hands. When they finally touched, Achilles felt something warm slide down his face but he could not close his eyes to feel his tears. "I told them my name, Achilles.They knew me." Patroclus' infectious laugh rang out and the underworld suddenly seemed to sing. _"They knew me!"_

Patroclus abruptly stilled and a calm seriousness that belied his youth came over his features. "They will know you when you see them."

"I cannot go—" Achilles protested, heart clenched at the thought of having Patroclus leave him once more. Surely Patroclus would not belong in the same place in the underworld as he….

"They are waiting, Achilles. They have been waiting for a long time." Patroclus tipped his head, the radiant glow surrounding him gradually enveloping Achilles as well, and then did something Achilles had only ever done. He placed his hands behind the great warrior's neck and tilted his head forward until their brows met. "Do not be afraid, cousin," he whispered gently. "I have seen them. They say, 'Welcome, brother.'"

In a heartbeat, the glow became a blinding light as Patroclus flung his arms wide and laughed, laughed as he had as a boy, and the sound echoed through eternity so that scribes recording great battles heard it and were warmed. The underworld was gone and they were no longer alone, they were with the shades and tales of glory. But all that mattered was Patroclus and the words that he spoke…

"_Welcome…my brother."_


End file.
